


Sweeter Than the Flesh

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adolescence is Both Awkward and Awful, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Barbarian Hordes, Bravery, Captivity, Comedy, Consent Issues, Courage, Drama, Dubious Consent, First Time, Freedom, Historical Inaccuracy, Humor, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Master/Slave, Pastiche, Power Imbalance, Pseudo-History, Random Stiles is Random, Romance, Self-Sacrifice, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Snark, Supernatural Elements, Teenage Hormones, Underage Sex, Virginity, War, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:21:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Worst. Slave. Ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweeter Than the Flesh

Holy crap, these guys are huge. _Huge._ Broad and bulky and draped with fur, like - like wolves. Which is what they are, after all. Warriors of the Wolf Clan. They wear wolf-pelts and wolf-fangs and think they're half-wolves, possessed by wolf-spirits; they're faster on their feet and keener in their hearing than most men, and their eyes glint with an unnatural, lupine sharpness that makes nearby birds take off into the sky and horses whinny with nervousness.

And now, they have Stiles's ass. And some of them are looking at him like they'd like to _have_ Stiles's ass, and that's just… wrong. Freaky-wrong. Freaky-bad-get-me-outta-here-right-now-wrong.

Stiles plasters himself against the back of the cage and wheezes, like maybe sticking to the bars of the cage will convince everyone that he isn't even there, or like wheezing might indicate a horribly unattractive lung disease that'll have him coughing phlegm on anyone who attempts intimacies, or something. Who wants their dicks covered in phlegm, right? No one, that's what.

Shit. Who is he even - he's not even fooling himself. This is a freaking slave-market. Except that in a market, there's actually money exchanging hands, but in this case, it's just… bodies. Lots and lots of bodies. It's a free-for-all. Bodies for the taking. Stiles is crammed into the cage with them, driven even farther into the bars by the awful crush, surrounded by the thick stench of sweat and human fear (and urine; some of the youngest kids have pissed themselves). Stiles is the only one that's reasonably washed and not under six years old or over sixty years old and still has all his teeth, so he's the jewel of the fucking crown, here, if crowns are made of sheer, mind-numbing misery. And terror. Can't forget the terror.

And asses. Soon-to-be-reamed asses. Specifically, his soon-to-be-reamed ass.

Shit. 

"Hey," says Stiles, to the old man cowering next to him in the cage. "You know how many guards there are?"

But the guy just looks at him like he's crazy, and shrinks away.

Great.

Stiles doesn't belong here. Well, _none_ of them belong here; no human beings belong in cages. (Or animals, for that matter; Stiles had immediately set the songbirds he'd been given for his birthing-day free.) But, still, these are the straggling few the Wolf Clan had managed to capture, those that were too sick or old or young to flee; Stiles is only here because he'd hung back to hold the fortress gates open long enough to get as many people as possible in. In and safe.

As many people as possible… except for himself.

He'd been taken while he was still holding the gates open. He just - he hadn't been able to tell himself to let go, to escape, when he could still see the desperate faces of the people on the other side, kids and widows and grandpas in ratty cardigans. Each pair of feet that ran past him had made his heart thud with the sort of relief he probably should've saved for himself, once he'd gotten away.

But he hadn't gotten away. Technically, he hadn't even tried to get away. So he can't blame anyone else for his predicament, can he? It's all Stiles Stilinski. One-hundred percent pure, distilled fool.

His Dad was totally right about Stiles being a suicidal idiot, wasn't he?

What's Dad even doing, now? Wigging out, definitely. Breaking down. Maybe. Fuck.

Dad won't be able to rescue him. He won't be able to leave the town, right now, not when the people need their chief, need every able hand to fight off the encroaching Wolves, and it won't help a thing that one day, the bards will compose legend-songs about Stiles's heroic sacrifice, because, damn it, Dad's just lost a _son_.

Stiles… Stiles has lost his father.

He - he still can't believe it. This is fucking surreal. Just two nights ago, he'd been eating in the great hall, mooning over Lydia. At the grand table, Chief Stilinski's head was bowed as he somberly discussed some matter of governance with Master Deaton, but Stiles hadn't known it was about strange sightings on the nearby hill, about what would - in a matter of hours - be an invasion. A raid that would drive all the serfs and farmers towards the fortress gates, seeking shelter, and Stiles -

Stiles had done what he had to do.

He doesn't regret it, despite everything, and that's… that's a sort of comfort. The best sort of comfort, and maybe the only sort of comfort he's going to have, here, among the Wolves.

  


* * *

  


They let them out of the cage around sunset, jeering and prodding at each helpless body tumbling out the door, Stiles included. Especially Stiles. Who tries to keep his head down and his posture unobtrusive, but it ain't easy with a circle of slavering wolf-men grabbing at him, shoving at him, and making jokes at his expense. It's thanks to those off-color jokes, though, that Stiles realizes he can understand what they're saying. No matter the rumors that they're speechless barbarians, the words these wolf-men are using are only English words, albeit spoken in a heavier, more guttural accent. It's like being hit by pebbles. Very big, rocky pebbles. Or, er, just rocks.

Stiles miraculously manages to keep his mouth shut (seriously, he's surprising himself), but then, one of the bastards pounces on a little girl of scarcely five - _Marya_ , he remembers overhearing one of the other prisoners calling her her - and drags her forward. Marya's face is drawn and filled with uncomprehending dread, like she thinks she's going to be killed right then and there, and, hell, maybe she is.

Stiles's muscles twitch, and he takes a step forward, in spite of himself.

"Pre-tty girl," the wolf-man rumbles, a flash of unnatural green lighting his eyes, and, crap, that look he has on his ugly mug is unmistakable. Unmistakable and sickening, that someone would want that with a _child_ , with a - a -

"Dude, come on, let her go," says someone, sounding weirdly jovial, and it takes Stiles a moment to figure out that it's him.

Oh, fuck.

The green-eyed giant turns to him.

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._

"You want to take her place, boy?"

"Who, me? Ha ha. Ha. Um. Yeah?" What the hell is he even saying? "I mean, it's not like she could handle a big, strapping… person like yourself. She's kind of - tiny, right? Tiny little thing."

"That," says the monster, "is what I like about her."

Goddamn depraved _pedophile_ \- "I can be small! I can be very small. I can curl up into a teeny ball. Positively fetal. Could fit in the palm of your hand. Could fit on the head of a pin. Minuscule, really. That's me. Won't even know I'm there." God, he has no clue what he's doing, but all he knows is that the man's letting Marya go, and that an elderly woman - her grandmother? - is sobbing and pulling her back into the throng. Out of sight.

"You are pretty, too," says Green Eyes, which, what? Since when is Stiles pretty? Let alone in the way prepubescent girls are pretty? (Not that Stiles finds them pretty; he's just trying to understand things from a twisted, deranged lunatic's perspective.) "But you talk too much."

"I can be quiet! I can be real quiet. I, uh." His heart is hammering. He's going to throw up. "I. Ack."

The man's towering over him, and now, all that unholy attention he'd focused on Marya is focused on Stiles. It's like being stripped of his clothes _and_ his flesh, because that licentious, hungry gaze doesn't stop at anything as paltry as skin, oh, no. Stiles is being eye-fucked right down to his bones. Down to his tasty, delicious marrow. That Green Eyes will suck _out_ of his bones, after snapping them, which he'll do after raping Stiles. Or during, who knows? More efficient, that way. Eating and fucking - why do them separately? Streamline that process.

Green Eyes is drooling. Literally, visibly salivating - there may be spittle involved - and Stiles is…

Stiles is absolutely, positively certain that he's going to pass out. Green Eyes reaches for him, fingers blunt and fucking _taloned_ , and a wave of powerful dizziness sweeps over Stiles, like an undertow, threatening to pull him under.

He's dead. Well, he's fucked, and then he's dead, but basically? He's fucked. _And_ dead.

Maybe at the same time.

Are wolf-men into that? They are, aren't they? They practically have to be -

He's so _dead_ -

But then, before Green Eyes can even touch him, he's being yanked back, by an even bigger guy, who growls: "That one's mine."

And Stiles… collapses. Onto his knees.

And _shakes_ , because -

Because a) he's still alive, b) he's still alive, and c) he's still alive. Somehow. Also, he hasn't been buggered. Yet. Which is - good. Very, very good. On a relative scale of bad-to-worse, this is even sort of great, as in, he's got at least 0.0000004 seconds more to live with his ass and his thoracic cavity intact. These two Wolves are apparently gonna duke it out, _over him_ , which gives Stiles a short window of time in which to pray to the deities of his preference (although he's more of an agnostic, honestly), and to pen one last mental letter to his dad.

So Stiles just sits there, britches soaking up the mud and sticking to his shins, as the challenger - who has a pair of feral, savage blue eyes - curls his fists.

Maybe they'll kill each other. And then neither of them will fuck Stiles. Or maybe they'll start one of those hilarious domino-effect bar-fights that'll end up with all of the wolf-men dead, wouldn't that be nice?

Yeah, no. But a boy can dream.

The fight (and how fucking bizarre is it that people are fighting over Stiles? _Stiles?_ ) turns out to be almost anticlimactic, because Green Eyes backs down right quickly, after not even two blows have landed.

There's something more than just a fight going on, here. It's -

It's like Blue Eyes outranks Green Eyes in some way, because Green Eyes doesn't even look particularly humiliated about stepping down, and he's the kind of egotistical bastard that _should_ normally be pissed off about losing. But he isn't. Or, uh, he is, but he's also obviously not pushing it, and none of the other warriors seem even remotely surprised at the outcome, or willing to wade in and make a claim of their own, even though they'd been plenty interested in Stiles, before.

Blue Eyes makes a sweeping gesture, and Green Eyes just… scrambles back, clutching a bleeding nose and what might be a broken rib. Looks like the brief scuffle was more symbolic than anything else, a bit of face-saving for Green Eyes, like, 'I didn't give up without a fight.' Or something. Like Blue Eyes was indulging him.

But before Stiles can psychoanalyze these loonies any further, Blue Eyes is turning to him, and Stiles -

\- meeps. Because who wouldn't, really? Faced with that. All of that. All seven-feet-nine-inches of… that. It isn't just musculature; the guy's arms are as thickly corded as the ropes used to anchor ships. The man is downright nautical in his proportions.

In… all of his proportions, if the wolf-pelt doubling as a barely-sufficient loin-cloth has anything to say on the matter. Which it totally does, since it has a _mouth_. A wolf's mouth. A wolf's muzzle. A wolf's _head_ , and, seriously, what the hell does it say about a guy that he kills a wolf and mounts its head on his crotch?

Most terrifying - and also terrifyingly corny - fashion statement ever.

Stiles is babbling inside his own _brain_.

Those blue eyes don't glint so much as burn, when they look Stiles over, and Stiles tries simultaneously to shrink away and look brave. Possibly he only succeeds in looking constipated, because one corner of his new suitor's mouth hooks up, revealing a pointed, gleaming fang, and maybe that's supposed to be an expression of amusement, but all Stiles can think is, _Hello, Mr. Fang. Will you be the last thing I see before I die? You will, won't you? Still, I'm sure it'll be nice knowing you. If by 'nice' you mean 'agonizing and bloody'._

"You," barks his - master? Is that what this fangy dude is, now? "Get up."

Stiles gets up. On autopilot. His knees refuse to lock, for a second, but then he steadies them.

"Follow me."

In for a penny, in for a pound. In for a puppy, in for a hound. A mad, rabid wolfhound. With teeth.

Stiles tries to follow - he genuinely does - but his feet get all tangled up, and the guy sighs - sighs! - before grabbing Stiles's arm in a grip that feels like a cross between an iron band and a manacle made of hot, just-smelted lead.

Everyone - human and otherwise - gawks as Blue Eyes drags Stiles away.

Towards an… encampment, of some type. With tents. War-tents. Where the warriors presumably deflower their slaves.

Keeping silent is starting to freak Stiles out, so he decides to let some of the babble out of his head. Hey, it's not like it can get any worse. What'll Blue Eyes do, if he doesn't like the babbling? Hurt Stiles? It's not like he isn't going to hurt Stiles, anyway. No point in being a cowardly piss-ant about it. Also, captivity is going to be just plain boring if he can't even snark. Snarking is his natural state; ain't like a man-beast with claws is gonna frighten him out of it.

Right.

Stiles clears his throat. And starts talking.

"Yo, Blue Eyes. Anyone ever tell you that you look like a psychopathic serial killer? 'Cause you look like a psychopathic serial killer. Hatchet-wielder. Axe-murderer." And then, Stiles catches sight of the bladed monstrosity the guy has strapped to his back, and pales. "With an axe. An actual mother-freaking _axe_. I - I need to go lie down. Except that you're dragging me along in theatrical slave-fashion by my spindly little slave-arm. Awesome. So, when're you planning to kill me with that axe?"

The warrior spares him an irritated glance, like Stiles's incessant chatter is only slightly less deserving of grievous bodily harm than… than anything else.

"I'm serious, man. My body and I, we're part of the anti-axe movement. We're axe abolitionists. We don't like axes. Axes destroy the environment. Trees. Foliage. Jugulars. Oh, god. Please don't kill me. My neck's, like, a _thread_ , okay? Just a teensy-weensy thread compared to your… manly, trunk-like mountain of a neck. That isn't a neck, it's a rock formation. Jesus Christ, how do you even turn your _head_? Does the slightest movement cause landslides? It does, doesn't it?"

They're at a tent. They're at a massive tent, and it's the largest in the entire camp, and it's -

"Wait, are you the chief?"

But then Stiles is being thrown in, onto a pile of surprisingly non-fusty furs, and Blue Eyes is stalking in after him.

Bugger. Buggery. Sodomy. Rampant, unabashed, non-consensual sodomy. It starts now. Stiles is the chicken, and Blue Eyes is the chickenhawk. Stiles is the lamb, and Blue Eyes is the… wolf. The very, very big, very, very bad wolf.

"Um. I. Just thought I should let you know, I mean, you're clearly within your rights to completely break me into my component parts and, like, destroy my soul, but I'm a virgin, so perhaps the destruction could be lubricated? Maybe? Just a suggestion."

"I will not rape you."

The words are so unexpected that for a couple of minutes, all Stiles can do is sprawl there and gape. "What did you say?" he squawks, finally.

There's that hook, again, lifting up one side of the wolf's mouth. This time, the fang glitters, like a gilded invitation to a beheading. "You will beg me to take you."

'Beg'? The heck? "Uh, no, I _won't_. Pretty sure about that."

"Hm." Blue Eyes doesn't seem in the least dissuaded. Or convinced. He jabs a clawed finger at what appears to be a dented copper tub, surrounded by pitchers of water. "Bathe. I will order another slave to bring you something to eat."

"You mean _I'm_ not something for _you_ to eat?"

"I don't eat humans."

"But that fellow out there does. Doesn't he? Green Eyes."

"Korak is… undiscriminating."

Whoa. Fancy word for 'crazy cannibal'. "And you're discriminating?"

Blue Eyes looks at him again, a slow, appreciative, raking stare, that takes Stiles in from head to foot. "Very."

Stiles's pulse skips. His throat is suddenly dry. "Huh. Good to know."

"Bathe," says Blue Eyes, again, and vanishes.

The tent-flap falls closed behind him.

Stiles lounges on the furs for a boneless half-hour, not because he's relaxing, or anything, but because he literally can't get up. His limbs just won't cooperate. It's like all his joints have been replaced with candle-wax, and they've melted under the flame of incandescent horror.

He's been captured by the Wolf Clan, and their chief - or one of their head honchos, anyway - has taken Stiles for a concubine.

It just doesn't get any crazier than this.

An incredulous, acid laugh bubbles out of him, jagged as a weapon he does not have.

He - he has no weapons.

Or does he?

He has… his wits. What's left of them. He has an important guy's favor, if Blue Eyes is as important as Stiles thinks he is. It's a good idea to keep that favor. Build on it.

And then, there's the other slaves. He has them, too. Provided he can convince them. Make them not go all wild-eyed at the merest mention of escape, like that old grandpa he'd tried to talk to in the cage.

He's gotta get out of here. Intellectually, he knows it's pointless, because it's not like these sons of bitches (holy shit, they _are_ sons of 'bitches', aren't they? So to speak. No disrespect to mothers anywhere) won't smell or hear or see his smallest movement, and it's not like he won't end up dead with his guts ripped out. But he has to try.

All he has to do is play nice, for a while - win his master's trust - and then he'll make a run for it, one way or another, and make it out of this stinking camp and back to Beacon Hills, where he'll tell his dad where the Wolf Clan is camping, and then he'll help his dad launch an attack.

And then they can rescue their people. All their people. Free the slaves.

It may only be a fantasy, a desperate self-delusion, but even if it is, Stiles doesn't care.

He _doesn't_. He's getting out of here.

But first, he needs to bathe.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from [this poem](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/242790) by Arthur Rimbaud.
> 
> Like my writing? Check out [my blog](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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